Tiaré
Sandalwood
Ylang-ylang
Vetiver
Amber
05/23/2025
ClaireV
731 Reviews
ClaireV
1
The love language of the islands
Manoumalia enjoys a fearsome reputation as a tropical ylang so big and strong that it could snap your neck like a python. Au contraire, mon frère! The complete lack of fruity sharpness should be your first clue that Manoumalia isn’t stopping at the tried-and-true station of beachy tropicalia. Rather, this is a rich floral ‘mud’, the voices of its ylang and tiaré muted by a thick blanketing of earth, rubber, and sawdust.
Indeed, we are not on the beach at all, sipping cocktails, gazing at the sun, but rather, subsumed into the humid jungle behind it, sucked into shadows by the smell of vetiver, with its smoked hazelnut swampiness. The feeling here is dark and warm, gentle almost, as if all the shrill brightness of ylang has bled out into a red-brown sandalwood sawdust beneath the bush.
Manoumalia does smell enticingly odd, though, which must have something to do with the nature of ylang itself. Drifting in and out of the floral silt are hints of wood, medicinal ointment, cold cream, sweet yellow rubber, salt, and occasionally something metallic, like dried blood. Midway through, there is a waft of something expiring or going stale. Imagine a pound cake left out in a jungle clearing, pools of yellow melted butter drawn to the surface by the hot sun, steaming in syrup, and dirtied at the edges by soil, leaves, and other jungle flotsam and jetsam.
There are also tendrils of smoke or gasoline (ylang-typical), and in the drydown, a gummy-mealy nag champa note that calls up the DNA results Jeremy Kyle-style on a surprising sisterhood: Sikkim Girls (Lush), Le Maroc Pour Elle (Tauer), and Daphne (Comme des Garcons). In the far reaches of the drydown, Manoumalia has nudged us out of the tropical floral category entirely and into territory that might be more accurately described as a mud gourmand.
Manoumalia is a masterpiece. But because I am never sure if it is still available, or if Les Nez is even still in business, I wear it only very rarely. Like Amaranthine (Penhaligon’s), Nu EDP (Yves Saint Laurent), and Daphne (Comme des Garcons), its limited availability makes me want to hoard the remnants of my bottle. Which is a shame, because something as alive and as glowing as Manoumalia really ought to be worn. Use the good china, they say. Perhaps I will.
Indeed, we are not on the beach at all, sipping cocktails, gazing at the sun, but rather, subsumed into the humid jungle behind it, sucked into shadows by the smell of vetiver, with its smoked hazelnut swampiness. The feeling here is dark and warm, gentle almost, as if all the shrill brightness of ylang has bled out into a red-brown sandalwood sawdust beneath the bush.
Manoumalia does smell enticingly odd, though, which must have something to do with the nature of ylang itself. Drifting in and out of the floral silt are hints of wood, medicinal ointment, cold cream, sweet yellow rubber, salt, and occasionally something metallic, like dried blood. Midway through, there is a waft of something expiring or going stale. Imagine a pound cake left out in a jungle clearing, pools of yellow melted butter drawn to the surface by the hot sun, steaming in syrup, and dirtied at the edges by soil, leaves, and other jungle flotsam and jetsam.
There are also tendrils of smoke or gasoline (ylang-typical), and in the drydown, a gummy-mealy nag champa note that calls up the DNA results Jeremy Kyle-style on a surprising sisterhood: Sikkim Girls (Lush), Le Maroc Pour Elle (Tauer), and Daphne (Comme des Garcons). In the far reaches of the drydown, Manoumalia has nudged us out of the tropical floral category entirely and into territory that might be more accurately described as a mud gourmand.
Manoumalia is a masterpiece. But because I am never sure if it is still available, or if Les Nez is even still in business, I wear it only very rarely. Like Amaranthine (Penhaligon’s), Nu EDP (Yves Saint Laurent), and Daphne (Comme des Garcons), its limited availability makes me want to hoard the remnants of my bottle. Which is a shame, because something as alive and as glowing as Manoumalia really ought to be worn. Use the good china, they say. Perhaps I will.
